Chapter 8 Natasha
NATASHA
I leaned into Lachlan’s side. A taut coil in his muscle unwound as Lorenzo’s truck sped away.
Guilt made it hard to swallow. I forgot Lorenzo texted me that he’d help at the hospital on Mondays and Wednesdays.
Dr. Ghannam updated me in person every Monday.
Did Enzo pick that day by chance? No. It made sense.
Interns and volunteers often picked even or odd days.
But I didn’t take him at his word. Perhaps, I’d hold off until Lach wasn’t all grunts and bravado.
“You mentioned the elevator?” I murmured, chewing my lip.
He nodded.
Ugh. I hope Lachlan didn’t blow it out of proportion. Say that I said Lorenzo cornered me in an elevator.
My eyes traced his battered lip and bruised knuckles. “Possessiveness suits you.”
“Well, you look hotter when you’re mine.”
Oh? I rose onto my tippy toes and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Quit memorizing top highlights of my favorite cheesy romances, Lach.”
He chuckled. “Aye, cheesy? Read better stories.”
“What, like baseball theory? No thanks. Now, let’s play ball.”
The setting sun cast long shadows over the field. The MacKenzie brothers devolved, yelling about whether the brother in prescription glasses actually tagged someone. He was the baby. I think.
I stepped away to grab water when Simona appeared at my side.
Despite the dimming light, she still wore sunglasses.
She always seemed to be in hiding. Fear?
No. That wasn’t it. Simona could cop a ‘tude faster than anyone I knew.
She was cold and unapproachable around everyone.
Long, dark hair swept forward, curtaining part of her face, as she handed me a water bottle.
“You okay?” Simona asked, voice low and even.
I twisted the cap, sipped, then nodded. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” Though I hadn’t told her what happened to me on my birthday, she’d witnessed another type of evil in Moscow. That experience had heightened her intuition. Besides, being my cousin, she just knew how to read me.
Simona snatched the sunglasses from a hardened scowl. Yeah, she had a tongue sharper than a dagger, too, but she usually reserved that for her annoying twin baby sisters.
I exhaled. “Jamie invited Enzo.”
“Stop calling him that.”
Though she didn’t express many emotions, this was how she said she was Team Lachasha—even if I hadn’t revealed my secret celebrity name for my relationship with Lachlan. I had thought of Lach & Key, but my name didn’t start with a K. Maybe one day I’d get a heart locket and try …
“Okay, Lorenzo,” I muttered. “I’m not attracted to him.”
“You sure?” Jordyn wrapped me in a hug from behind. “Because you have Italian First Person Shooter vs. Scottish Turquoise Eyes … You got choices.”
“Shouldn’t you hype up your brother-in-law?” I smirked.
Simona tucked one side of her hair behind her ear and leaned against the picnic table. “I will not typecast Lorenzo as the villain. But I gauge people by sight. Now.”
Jordyn’s gaze lingered, as if reading my cousin.
Something had happened when Simona was fourteen.
For over a year, Simona had lived at my house, claiming she’d wanted to attend an American school.
It gutted Uncle Sim. And similar to how I hurt Pop’s feelings—and mine in an indirect way—I figured she had fallen away from her family. Didn’t connect.
She’d also gotten into self-harm. I told no one. After a while, she’d become so close. The sister I never had. And she’d clung to my mom, like she was her own. Because Simona had the deep skin tone of my momma, they resembled each other more than me.
That was the beauty of the other half of my heritage. The African roots dug down deep into the blood. All of us younger Resnovs looked different, but the same. Thicker hair, thicker lips, and the most beautiful shades ever came from my momma’s and aunt’s sides of the family.
Now, just stop thinking about your rapist, Tash, and remember why you cherish your Russian roots too.
I glanced around. The blacker-the-berry effect was also beginning to influence the MacKenzies’ Scottish ancestry as well.
When I tuned back in, Jordyn had an arm around Simona. Though she didn’t have the pale skin or blond hair of your typical Russian, Simona took one thing from our paternal side of the family. She hated touches. Except for now, I guess?
Wounded women find each other. I didn’t fit in, though. Jordyn only knew about Adrian Chelomey. I buried the shame and hurt of having my body used for times when I was alone. Couldn’t stomach the pity, and I wasn’t about to live through another of my father’s revenge schemes.
“Okay, Simona,” Jordyn said, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “If he’s always in selfie-mode, it’s Rory.”
Oh. Jordyn was giving my cousin the lay of the land. I hadn’t finished pointing out each brother when Lachlan’s and Enzo’s voices had escalated.
“If he’s a broody Scot in prescription glasses that scream I can see your soul and it’s questionable”—Jordyn nudged her chin to the furthest picnic table—“yeah, that’s Baby Jake.”
The future therapist, and youngest MacKenzie brother, sat by himself. Reading. Would be my kinda guy if the cover wasn’t dark, dramatic. The imagery hinted at a psychological thriller.
Simona said, “Jake, a baby? Pah.” Again, the Russian in her sounded nonchalant, but I could read my people. And she read the same intense, brain screwing thrillers. Ah-ha. Jake intrigued her.
“Calm down.” I snorted. “If my dad hates, yours is the Hater-in-Chief.”
On Monday, I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and glanced at Lachlan’s text.
LACH: We gotta go public.
Was this how he threw his weight around because of Lorenzo’s impromptu appearance? Days ago, I’d have loved the sound of that. Well, if my father’s name weren’t Vassili Karo Resnov.
Considering my threadbare relationship with Pop, how did I respond?
Dang. I sipped my iced coffee. My answer would be … let’s take my parents to dinner first. Buy Pop a gift, sit him down with a bottle of kvass. In the bratva, that was how an opposing faction might make amends.
“Lach hasn’t done anything wrong …”
ME: How about Valentine’s Day?
Lachlan had Dodger spring training the week after.
That way, if Pop ordered a hit, my man would be in Glendale.
The Dodgers practiced in Arizona. Too many people around.
While he was gone, I’d squash the beef by sitting down with my dad.
Instinctively, I touched my cross pendant at my neck.
It was too big for me, but I’d had my eyes on it ever since I watched old UFC videos with Pop.
He was dripping in sweat, blood, and fisting a UFC belt above his head. I missed that. Me and Pop.
LACH: Ok. V Day.
Inside the building, I finished my chat with Dr. Ghannam and picked up my ringing phone as I passed by high-tech gadgets on the way to the laboratory’s exit, when a call came through.
With the scientists busy, I quickly answered. Mistake of my life. “What is it, Junior?”
“Do not call me that.”
I rolled my eyes. He let me call him Vass, but refused the American “Junior,” insisting on the Russian patronymic ending in -ievich. Yet he couldn’t stand Pop. Go figure. I still called him Boobie, so there was that. “Forgive me, Vassilievich, my Boobie. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“Can I just check on my sis?”
“No. Because you’d convince me to visit you at UCSD. I wind up at a frat party, playing beer pong with my young brother, who shouldn’t be—”
“Hey,” Vassilievich barked, his slight Russian accent thickening, “I’m not that young.”
“Nineteen is too young. Then you vanish with some random hoe, and I rush away before your frat bros get handsy.”
“Who did what?” Vassilievich growled.
I let myself out of the laboratory. “Don’t worry. Apparently, the sight of my Shadow sobers grown men.”
I leaned against the wall, eyes on the dome safety mirror on the ceiling fixed where the hallways crossed.
It helped nurses avoid collisions—but it also hid security cameras.
This past Sunday, after my apology for the racist comment, Pop and I made a pinkie promise.
I begged him to fire my Shadow. He’d agreed. Yet somehow, I still felt eyes on me.
Enzo, dressed in fatigues and a black Henley, appeared in the reflection, strolling down the hall.
“Gotta go,” I muttered while my baby brother barked out a request for names.
Hanging up, I pressed my back against Dr. Ghannam’s laboratory again, not wanting the pressure or temptation.
Blind, I reached for the knob. It didn’t turn.
Lorenzo turned the corner, thick brow lifted. “Natasha?”
Hmmm, where’s his Italian accent? Maybe he was surprised too? “Hey …” I grinned, my breasts sticking out more than usual with my body plastered against the door. The knob gave no slack. Ugh. I started an idiot wave when Lorenzo pulled me into a hug.
“Hey, buddy …” I said again, patting his back.
“Don’t make this awkward,” he replied, all smooth and Italian.
Okay, it was there. And beautiful. He thumbed a lock of my hair in his hand, and that boldness that made me chomp my teeth at him in the elevator never came. I inhaled his intoxicating cologne. A blink transported me to Rome. Lemon notes infused with verbena.
“Don’t flirt.” I flitted a hand, stopping him from playing with my hair.
“I’m hungry. You hungry?”
“No.” Well … It was lunchtime … I’d never missed a meal, except for fasts.
“C’mon, Natasha. I respect you. You’re monogamous.”
The emphasis on you’re seemed to question Lachlan. “Sure am. A one-guy type of girl.” Smile plastic, I meandered toward the elevator.
“Okay, lunch in the hospital cafeteria. My cousin got used to it. So I did too. Besides, nothing scandalous happens in a hospital cafeteria.” His voice teased, but tension rested at his mouth, his muscled shoulders, as he waited for my response.
That whole attempt to seem relaxed made me wonder if thoughts distracted him.
And his intense stare added to the unease building in my chest.
“Which room is Rain in?” I tilted my head. “Grab yourself and her something, I’ll meet you there, see if your cousin’s up for a hello.”
“Not possible.”
M’kay?
A palpable sadness washed over his face. “She’s dead.”